The Address(6)

“The child fell out of the window?”

“Almost. But I got there just in time. To be honest, I’m not sure what I should do.”

“If you go to America, I will never see you again.” The delivery was a statement of fact, the only sign of worry a slight waver in the last word.

“The passage takes only a week. I can come back to visit.”

“How soon do they want you there?”

“The apartment house is due to be finished by the end of October, and they’d want me to arrive a month before to get everything in order.”

“You can’t seem to stay with one thing, can you? Always taking risks and changing your mind.”

“Mother, I’ve been working at the Langham for eleven years. I would think my constancy is not in question. It’s more money, much more. Which means we can afford to buy you a new petticoat and have Avril to take care of you, not choose one over the other.”

“Avril’s a silly nit. And what do I need money for? I’m soon to die.”

“You’re not soon to die.”

“That’s not what Dr. Torrington says.”

“He told me you’re doing beautifully.”

Her mother turned her head away and shut her eyes, and the subject was closed.

Later that evening, after her mother had been helped to bed and Sara could hear her snores through the walls, she went to the bookcase and took down the tin box from the highest shelf. She did this every visit, had checked it every year since she’d first noticed it as a girl of ten. Inside were four letters from Lord Chichester to her mum, all businesslike in manner, arranging for Sara’s expenses and care, as long as they promised to stay away.

Sara had shown her mother the letters and been met with vitriol, as if her mother had been waiting for the moment of truth. She raged about being forced out by the countess, banished with an ungrateful child to care for. From then on, every misstep Sara made had been an excuse to berate her as the cause of her mother’s downfall. Never mind the Earl of Chichester’s part in the matter.

Her mother had loved running Stanmer House. Her militaristic need for order made her good at her job, and Sara was certain she’d worshipped Lord Chichester with the devotion of a lapdog. In return, she’d been dismissed. How awful it would have been for her to relinquish the set of household keys, an emblem of her power over nearly every other servant, from where they had hung on her ever-expanding waist.

Her mother had retreated, and expected her daughter to do better. But in spite of her mother’s determination, Sara had failed as an apprentice and become a lowly maid. Her mother had never forgiven her nor asked why the sudden change occurred. Not that Sara would ever tell her.

Still, how horrible it must have been for her mother to be forced out of a familiar role and setting. Hidden away, after years of servitude. Sara bristled against the injustice, as her own position at the Langham was similarly precarious, dependent on the tyrannical whims of Mr. Birmingham, no matter how competent her administration. Her short meeting with Mr. Camden, while curious, had reminded her that she was, in fact, good at her job.

When she’d first been promoted, the challenge of balancing the many duties of head housekeeper had exhilarated her. She maneuvered her troops like a general at war, ensuring the precision and consistency of service that had made the Langham one of the top hotels in London. But it was never enough for Mr. Birmingham, and the job had recently begun to fray her nerves. She ran herself ragged all day, before flopping into bed exhausted but unable to sleep because of the many details to be dealt with first thing in the morning: cajole the irritable head laundress into putting less bleach in the sheets, determine which maid had stolen a tortoiseshell comb from room 322.

She put the letters away and wandered out the back of the cottage. The thick stems of the fleur-de-lis lay across the pathway like fallen sentries. The orange evening sky lit the water in the pond with a flame of color, as if both water and air were burning. She was thirty years old. Too old to change, to go to a completely different continent and start over.

Yet, what she’d read about America in the papers intrigued her. No worrying about using the proper titles. Everyone was called a Mrs., Mr., or Miss. The American guests she’d met, like Mr. Camden, tended to be far less demanding than the English ones.

As it stood, she could stay at the Langham for another thirty years, then retire to this cottage and take up where her mother had left off. Tea by the fire, sherry by the fire, before beginning all over again the next day.

Or she could try something new.





CHAPTER THREE



New York City, September 1985


Bailey sank into a stiff, mid-century chair in the waiting room of the offices of Crespo & O’Reilly, happy to be out of the stifling New York City heat. She took a tissue out of her handbag and dabbed at her cheeks and forehead. The unfortunate perm that Tristan O’Reilly had insisted she have six months ago had begun to grow out, but after the boiling subway ride, she probably looked like a disheveled poodle. Not the look she was going for when she started out this morning. Tristan, who cared only for beautiful things, wasn’t going to be pleased.

“He’ll see you now.” The receptionist wasn’t familiar. But then again, Tristan went through them every three months, so he was right on schedule.

Three months she’d been away. It felt more like three years. An itchiness spread up her spine to her neck and she took a deep breath.